


Spike's Job

by verucasalt123



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, POV Spike, Submissive Spike, dom Angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel wants to teach Spike a lesson about financial responsibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spike's Job

**Author's Note:**

> for the Spike Gets A Job prompt at nekid_spike.

I could feel it before he even opened the door. I squared my shoulders and drew myself up for a fight, though I already knew it would be useless.

“Out here, boy!.” I heard Angel almost-yell through clenched teeth. I moved immediately into the living area just beyond the foyer by the front door, for just a moment thinking maybe I was out of arm’s reach. 

“What is it, Peaches? You sound upset, luv, let me-” Yeah, no, not out of arm’s reach after all. Fuck me. His big hand was pushing against my chest not a millisecond before I felt my back against the wall, his face so close to mine that I could feel the breaths he only took when he was either really angry or exceptionally turned on. Given the circumstances, I immediately gave up on the chance that the latter was the reason for this exchange.

“How many times, Spike?”, he asked, clearly not expecting an answer, “how many times do we have to have the conversation about you taking one of my cars out for a joyride without asking?”

I have no sodding clue what I was thinking, but for some reason, this seemed like a good moment to try and lighten the mood. “Um…as many times as it takes before you say yes when I do ask?”, I replied, keeping the cocky grin on my face in the desperate hope that it would take his mood from infuriated to maybe just mildly annoyed. 

He didn’t see the humor, apparently, if the knocking of the back of my head against the wall was any indication. Oh, this was it, this was real, and he wasn’t going to stake me, because I knew that no matter what else happened, he’d rather have **me** than a pile of dust, but I was in deep shit, bollocks, why was I always such an impulsive idiot? 

Stupid question. I was an impulsive idiot because that’s _what I was_. He just didn’t understand, because he had this measure of control that was far above mine. I couldn’t live up to his standards, except for when I was sucking his cock, or when I was screaming into a pillow while he fucked my ass raw, or when I was begging him to keep hurting me or stop hurting me. 

“You’re done, boy. This is the last one. You’re going to learn your lesson, and not the way you’re used to learning it”, he growled into my ear, and I shuddered at the thought that I didn’t understand what he was telling me. I understood full well that when I fucked up I was going to be punished, but he was saying my punishment wasn’t going to be what I was used to, something physical that I could assimilate into what I had learned to expect.

“Please, Angel, I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean to do it, I just get turned around sometimes _( because I’m never allowed to drive, I thought, but of course didn’t say, for fear of provoking him further)_ and I didn’t see the little post there, it’s not really that bad, is it?”, I pleaded with the very best “I’m so very repentant and at your mercy” look I could conjure up.

Yeah, that got me fucking nowhere. And I knew it the second the next words left his mouth. Sometimes he did it on purpose, when we were in bed, or having an intimate _romantic_ (I’d never say that) moment, because he knew how it made me feel, how much it turned me on in those situations when he slipped back into his thick Irish brogue on purpose. But when he was like this, and the accent fell into his words with no intent, an instinct from the days of Angelus, it wasn’t intimate or romantic, it was only **menacing**. 

“I’ll tell you what you're goin’ to do, boy, you're gonna go out tonight, the minute the sun goes down, and you're goin’ to get a job, a payin’ job, and you're gonna to earn the money to make these repairs on the Viper, understand? .” That was the accent I remembered, but that I also knew was intended to scare me, to make me do what he said no matter what it was.

And no, at first, I didn’t understand. First of all, what the bloody hell kind of job skills did I have, in this world where we lived, in Los Angeles, in the twentieth century, any more than the job skills I had when Dru turned me as a university-educated young man who was still virginal and dependent on his mother like a child? What the fuck was I supposed to do? What was I good at? What did he expect from me? Was there some kind of job where you could get paid for scaring people? And could only do at night?

Oh, wait. There was. I knew there was, and if that was what Angel or Angelus (or Liam, whoever that was, I’d never known Liam) required of me, that was what I’d do. Gods knew he had money, plenty of it, any kind of bodywork that was required to make the sodding Viper good as new, Angel had it and paying it would be no sacrifice to him. All right, so it was the principle of the thing, and this is what he wanted from me, so I would give it to him, no matter what I had to do, because I’d always give him anything. 

With one last knock of my head against the wall, and a stinging open-handed slap to the left side of my face, he backed off a bit. “Tonight, boy. I don’t expect you to come back here before sunup unless you’ve done what I’ve told you to do”, he roughly whispered against me, and yes, I did, I believed him. And I was determined.

So, with the sun gone and the blackness of night protecting my skin, I stepped up to the bar, this place I’d been so many times before, walking past the real-man at the door without him even glancing in my direction. If I could _really blush_ , I would have, the humiliation of having to beg for something almost more than I could take, but not more than what I’d feel going home to Angel without what he’d demanded of me. Seeking out the attention of the bar manager, to whom I’d spoken many times before, I gave my best effort at seeming nonchalant as I asked if he’d possibly need anyone else on the night shift, to stand at the door, or serve drinks, or wash dishes, or scrub toilets. Knowing that people like me, who weren’t _really_ people, frequented this place didn’t make it any easier. It was obvious even to him that I could just snap his neck and take whatever cash was close, but that I was asking because I had to, and he may have sensed my desperation. He graciously offered to allow me to stay until closing time and pay me an hourly wage to mop the floors and scrub the surfaces of the restrooms.

I accepted his offer and sat at the bar, drinking water because it was free, until the lights came on. Determination won on out over shame, as I took the next several hours mopping the dance floor and the space in front of the bar, then moved on to cleaning around urinals and bathroom stalls methodically, without using the preternatural speed and strength I had, completing the tasks I had been assigned as if I were a human being with responsibilities, because I **did** have a responsibility.

 

An hour or so before sunup, I had a small stack of cash in my hand, and I headed back home, back to Angel, with a pitiful hope that what I’d done would be satisfactory to him. I waited silently until he awoke, sensing my presence and surely smelling the sweat and filth on my body. When he finally rose from his ( **our** ) bed, he stood in front of me, as I sat exhausted and hungry and humiliated on the floor. I held out my hand and offered him the pitiful amount of cash I held. 

 

Thinking I’d have to do this countless more times to make up for my mistake, I was shocked to see him knock my hand to the side, bills falling onto the floor like they were nothing. And after a moment, I realized that they were nothing, because Angel spoke.

 

“Good boy, Will.”  



End file.
